


November: Drabble Every Day

by crossingwinter



Series: Irresponsible Storytelling [12]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:53:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am not doing NaNoWriMo.  I'm writing a novel in my free time as is, I don't need that.  But I feel like committing to a Novemberly writing project, so I present unto you: Drabble Every Day.  All fics will be posted <a href="http://crossingwinter.tumblr.com/tagged/november%3A%20drabble%20every%20day">first to my Tumblr</a> and then copied here.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Rhaenys x Visenya

**Author's Note:**

> I am not doing NaNoWriMo. I'm writing a novel in my free time as is, I don't need that. But I feel like committing to a Novemberly writing project, so I present unto you: Drabble Every Day. All fics will be posted [first to my Tumblr](http://crossingwinter.tumblr.com/tagged/november%3A%20drabble%20every%20day) and then copied here.

Her hair flows in silver rivulets down her back as she stands by the window looking out over the sea, skin bare and pale and bluish in the moonlight.  She looks like a goddess of the seas or skies, trapped in some cavernous tomb, some earthly body, and she would go to her, but she had learned long ago that she likes to be alone when she watches the waves.

Aegon never watches Rhaenys after he loves her, not the way Visenya does.  His eyes and cock both droop as he sinks into sleepy oblivion, content in his pleasure, content in his sister-wives, content in his dreams of kingship.  And when he softly snores between them, Rhaenys slips from the bed, the skin at her neck bruised from his kisses to stare at the sea, her pink nipples puckering against the cool.

Visenya stays where she is.  She ignores her sleeping brother, who rarely takes her rarely-given love, and watches Rhaenys, her first friend, standing next to the moon and stars and flickering light reflected off the waves, and wonders of what she thinks.

 


	2. Ellaria x Oberyn

She wasn’t sure what it was about him.

He was tall, yes, and lean, but much too much a man to attract her attention so strongly.  Yes, his lack of breasts was particularly disappointing.  And his hips too narrow, providing no swelling stop between his shoulders and his knees.  So why did she feel the blood throbbing in her lips when his hand brushed hers, or to see her fingers tremble when he looked at her? 

And yet here he was, singularly capturing her interest.  Her father had always been pleased that she’d never been swayed by men, and so he did not watch her with her Prince, did not see the way she blushed, did not see the confusion in her eyes as she tried to understand why now, after so much time, after mornings tumbling with her bedmaid, and sneaking kisses from one of the scullions.

She decided it was his eyes, perhaps the way his lips curled in a smile, and the way that he smelled of blood oranges and cinnamon.  Or maybe, it was the promise of something else, something more, something frustratingly indecipherable.  

 


	3. Roslin

She did not leave her room the next day, could not. They had dragged her Lord Husband off to a cell in the middle of the night, laughing at his tired confusion, and his cries that “the King would hear about this!” (She had trembled at the response: “Best hope he doesn’t, Lord Tully.”)

Everything was so still, so peaceful. The rains had cleared away and the skies were a lush blue. She even thought she heard the chirrup of sparrows through her window. But she did not go to look, she did not go to her door. She lay abed, on blooded sheets, and prayed that she would never have to leave the room again.


	4. Ygritte x Jon

She was born in the dark of winter, her head on fire, and her mother had always told her that she would shine brightest in the black.  And the cave may have been cold, but that wasn’t what made her skin break out into tiny bumps, that wasn’t what was making her shiver, that wasn’t what was filling her stomach with knots the likes of which she only got when she was terrified for her life, when she held a sword or spear in hand and was facing a shadowcat, a Thenn, or  _him,_ prepared to fight to the death; but here she stood, and there was no battle to fight, no war to win, no Wall to destroy, no army, no King Beyond The Wall, no South, no North, no nothing, no know-nothing boy between her legs whose mouth was, whose tongue was, whose kisses….

He caught her as her legs gave out underneath her, hands beneath her ass guiding her gently to the ground while she closed her legs against his face.  Her heart hammered so fiercely that she half-expected the rock beneath her to shatter.  She closed her eyes, and the fiery heat that had gathered around her began to spread away into the black of the cave.


	5. Sansa

Whenever Joff’s eyes fall on her, Sansa breaks out into a cold sweat.  She drops her chin, drops her shoulders, and drops her eyes in what she hopes is a repentant gesture.  Sometimes, he calls to her, other times, he leaves her, looking at the floor, wondering if he’s turned his attention elsewhere, praying that he has, but not daring to look up, even when she doesn’t hear him speak.  Once she stood by a window that way for nearly an hour, eyes flickering between the stone slabs of the floor and the sparring in the yard, wondering if those squires would ever know that fighting and battles weren’t one and the same.

Sansa wishes she could bar her door, lock herself away from everything.  But even if she did, he would break the door down and send Ser Meryn at her to knock her to the floor, maybe start kicking her ribs.  He’d threatened that once.  He’d said that the punches and slaps weren’t driving the message home, and perhaps Ser Meryn’s sabaton could make the point better than his gauntlets.  

In her dreams, the Hound doesn’t stop her, and she pushes him, and her head ends up on a spike like her father’s.  And she doesn’t care.


	6. Visenya

Aegon thinks she would be the better mother to kings, but, looking at Maegor’s contorted, screaming face, she knows, once again, that her brother is wrong. Visenya was a mother to warriors, not kings, for kings were weak and required adoration from all.

Their own mother was a good mother to kings, for she had reared three who would conquer the feeble Westerosi. She had loved them, cherished them, and purged the weakness from them with fire and blood and whispered prayers to the Gods who had destroyed Valyria. Rhaenys would be a good mother to kings, stern and supportive, criticism and love in equal measure.

But not Visenya. She stared at her squalling son, an eyebrow raised, and waited for him to stop. No tender, soothing hushed, no kisses and hugs and songs.


	7. Missandei

She stands as tall as she can, knowing that to shrink is weakness, and she cannot show weakness. To be weak now, before her Queen, before her Queen’s people…it would be suicide.

"I leave you," the Queen says, her voice thundering through the plaza like the blast of Yunkish trumpets, "the stewardship of my throne. Hold it well until I am returned to unite East and West beneath the Blood of Old Valyria once again."  _She is Old Valyria incarnate_ , she has heard whispers say, _born again, save for the slaves_. “Ser Barristan shall aid you, and shall serve as my Royal Commander, leader of the armies I leave here to protect my people.  He will remain by your side until I return.”

Wise, and kind, she thinks. But not the same. Not so good as you.  And what if you never return?

Panic floods her, but she only lets it out through one twitching toe.

"My Children," she calls to the plaza at large, "your mother leaves you in the care of her sister. Heed her wisdom  
She speaks with my mouth.”  _Sister_. The Queen called her sister. Her eyes sting suddenly, and she wants to beg the Queen not to go, not to fly off with her dragons and that little man with no nose.

But Daenerys Targaryen, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, of the Andals,  the Rhoynar, the First of Men, the Dothraki, and the Ghiscari, takes wing, her Drogon screaming beneath her. Her children cry “Mhysa” as she rises into the air, the Dothraki let out howls as they kick their horses into runs, and the Unsullied she freed at Astapor pound their spears in farewell.

Beneath the cacophonie, Ser Barristan turns to her. “What now, My Lady?” he asks her.

Missandei, Aunt of Meereen, Steward to the Queen, a motherless child, freed from bondage, takes a deep breath. “Now we rule.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [mademoisellesansa](mademoisellesansa.tumblr.com) in response to [this post](http://crossingwinter.tumblr.com/post/66158253013/mademoisellesansa-replied-to-your-post).


	8. Shireen

Everyone stares at Shireen here, and the wildlings almost cheerfully tell her she’s cursed.  She’s glad that they do.  It’s better than pretending not to notice the stone rash that crawls across her face.  It’s easier, somehow, when no one is pretending that she isn’t afflicted.  All her life, people have ignored her.  She was a girl, after all, not the boy her father had wanted.  She isn’t even pretty like her cousin Myrcella.  She has Florent ears, not to mention the strip of mottled grey rock up her face.  Up here, where it is so very cold, she’s glad of the stone on her face, the small stretch of skin that doesn’t go numb, because it always is.

When she and Myrcella had been much younger, before father had taken her and mother back to Dragonstone, and before Uncle Robert had died, she and Myrcella had played at dolls together.  Myrcella had always had many more friends than Shireen had had, but when Shireen had fallen ill with greyscale in the first place, Myrcella had come to visit her once the Maesters said she was no longer contagious.  She had brought Shireen a new doll, a golden princess, with curly golden hair like Myrcella’s.  When Shireen’s eyes had filled with tears at the sight of it, Myrcella had consoled her.  A week later, she had come back with a new doll, one with dark hair and a mottled patch of grey on her face.  Myrcella played with the greyscale doll, and Shireen played with the golden princess one, and after that, everything had somehow felt better.

Shireen had had to leave the golden princess doll on Dragonstone, tucked into a chest at the foot of her bed.  She wonders still if Myrcella had brought her Shireen doll with her to Sunspear.  


	9. Myrcella

  
Myrcella’s hands are cracked, and her cousin Rosamund rubs oil onto her them, dabbing at places so dry that the new moisture makes them sting.  Myrcella lets out a hiss, and Rosamund freezes, hunching over slightly.

"Forgive me, Princess, I did not mean," she begins, but halts when Myrcella shakes her head.  

In her fever, the Maester has told Myrcella that she should not move—certainly not until the wound on the side of her face has healed properly, for if she should cause her healing flesh to break, her fever would only intensify.  Myrcella doesn’t like to think of her fever intensifying, and so lies perfectly still all day, only moving slowly when Rosamund comes in to rub oil on her skin as she had once rubbed oil on Shireen’s.

They’d heard that an ointment from Asshai could soften the greyscale on her cousin’s face, and Myrcella had made Uncle Jaime fetch her some from the market.  He had done so, though not without complaint, and she had excitedly brought it to her ailing cousin.  She’d dabbed it carefully across Shireen’s face and neck, and then they had played at dolls, wondering how long it would take for the cream to set in.  Myrcella would watch-and-not-watch, as her Uncle Tyrion had taught her, and Shireen would fidget and rub her hands over her face.  But after two weeks of ointment, there was no change, and the Grand Maester had taken it away from them in the end.

 _Sweet Shireen, we are both scarred now_ , Myrcella thought sadly.  She pulled her blanket around her a little more tightly, and the skin on her knuckles cracked and bled.


	10. Bran

Bran hates double decker trains. He hates that to get to the seats, you have to go up, or down, and he can’t do either. Instead, he is trapped in the area where tourists heading to JFK sit because their suitcases are too big to go in the overhead racks on the upper level. He hates that they sit there, chatting in Swedish or Italian and don’t look at him because it rude to stare at the cripple. (There is a soft spot in his heart for the Chinese tourists. They don’t mind looking at him openly. It’s refreshing. One of them even took a picture with him once.) 

Bran hates that they don’t look at him. He knows they didn’t look at him before he broke his spine, but to continue on as though everything were normal and that the boy in the wheelchair doesn’t even exist is almost worse than not being able to climb up to the second floor of the train to see New Jersey from greater height. He wouldn’t mind if they pretended he didn’t exist the way they pretend everyone else doesn’t exist—that special kind of ignoring that tri-state area residents have perfected—but they seem to make an extra effort to ignore him, like they do for homeless people or the Chinese people who pass out the _Epoch Times_  outside of the subway stations in New York. That’s just one more luxury they have that he doesn’t—pretending broken Bran doesn’t exist.


	11. Sansa x Willas

They would never have been happy. Oh no, could never have been. It was a sobering thought, and did nothing to make him feel any better. Without Joffrey, and the Imp, and Harry, and Littlefinger, she would have been a vapid little thing, too young for him by far. She would have wanted glamour, which he wasn’t, and gallantry, which he could have provided to some extent, but not through dancing and tourneys and gifts brought home from afar. She might have come to love him, after a child or two, but he would never have forgotten the disappointment in her face when she first laid eyes on his bared leg, that wall of ice thrown up between them as impenetrable as ever that tremendous thing the Night’s Watch guarded.

And now…now of course he was ruined for her, and she could not quite bring herself to love him, though of course she calmly denied it. His goodness she feared covered cruelty, his honesty she distrusted, his tender touches she froze beneath. And he loved her still, despite it all, for he could conceive of no cruelty from her, no harsh intent, no manipulations that he expected daily from his own kin. Just honest, northern frigidity, quiet courtesy, and duty, above all, to her husband.

How could he not adore such a woman, who had been through so much, who had lost nearly everything?  How could he not find her captivating, when she stared through the window, pale skin glowing in the sunlight like one of the marble statues in the gardens.  She should be surrounded by roses, by daffodils, and lilies.  She should be the warmth of summer, the hope of spring.  But winter had come for her young, and all he could do was watch, and hope that it would not last forever.


	12. Rhaenys x Visenya

"Here’s the thing," Rhaenys says calmly, throwing her hair over her shoulder.  "No matter what we  _give_  them, they still will only bend the knee to our dragons.  Imagine what happens if the dragons die, sister.”

"And who will kill them?  These are the last dragons on this earth, and that knowledge was lost with Valyria."  Visenya’s feet are on Aegon’s painted table, her boots sandy.  Aegon hates it when she puts her boots on the table.  Visenya doesn’t care.  

Rhaenys dips her quill into the inkpot and prepares to write.  ”We need some sort of structure.  We truly do.  Visenya, if Aegon takes the Kingdoms, he cannot simply rule them with an iron fist.  And what of Maegor, when he inherits his kingship?  There needs to be some way to ensure that…Some way to make these Kings agree…”  Rhaenys is fumbling for words, a pink flush rising in her cheeks.

Visenya removes her feet from the table and leans forward so that her hand rests on Rhaenys’ knee.  ”Sweet sister, you worry too much.  About this, believe me, there is nothing to fear.”  She presses a light kiss to Rhaenys’ lips.

Later, when they are gathering their clothing from the floor, Visenya smiles when she sees Rhaenys’ paper, covered in the same ink that had ended up on her belly and lips.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a completely self-inspired drabble, based on [this post](http://crossingwinter.tumblr.com/post/66469169598/so-ive-been-seeing-this-a-lot-lately-and-i-feel-like).


	13. Blackwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [SapphireBlueJiyuu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireBlueJiyuu/pseuds/SapphireBlueJiyuu)(/[sapphireglyphs](http://sapphireglyphs.tumblr.com/)) in honor of Armistice Day.

Three weeks after the battle, he found another one, not so much washed up on shore as sunk like a stone beneath the dock where he tied his fishing boat.  It was the tenth that had come in since the main “clearing” in the four days after Blackwater, when knights and sailors were piled up along the shore to be sent to the Silent Sisters and their families if they were recognizable, or to be sent off to the mass grave to the west of the city if they weren’t.  And when the water was no longer green and flickering with the leftover sparks of the Wildfire, ships began to make their way in and out, as if nothing had happened, as if hundreds and thousands had not died.  

The city carried on.  The citizens threw flowers at the Tyrell knights when they passed by, they cheered the food that came in wagons upon wagons into the starving capital, they looked past the Three Whores, which had not been taken down, just in case.  The Hand of the King determinedly reminded them all that the battle was over, that they had won, that they were safe in the hands of House Lannister and House Tyrell.

But these High Lords ignored the victims of their game of thrones.  And still, from time to time, Jon would find a body, boiled in his armor beneath the docks.  He and his son Robert would dive down and pull the poor corpse up, tug off his armor and bring him up to the Great Sept, so he could find his peace at last.


	14. Joanna x Tywin

There was quiet in Casterly Rock when he awoke. Dawn was breaking, but the sunlight did not enter the chamber directly, only enough to see the merest outlines of her form.

Her face was turned away from him, golden curls mussed and splayed across the pillows. In her sleep she had kicked the coverlet off her so that only the bedsheet covered her. The pure white rippled around her, clinging to the the crevice between her and the mattress, draping over her, cascading down, hiding breasts more perfect than any he had ever seen in such a way that they were, if possible, more beautiful.

One pale arm was thrown above her head, and he saw purple, ovular bruises on her forearm from where she had been grabbed, held the night before. He was sure, though he could not see it, that her other arm bore similar marks. The King had not been himself, of course. And now that the morrow had arrived, he would pretend, as he always did if his mind was with him, that it had not happened, that he had done nothing to harm or upset his Hand’s Lady. And Tywin would, as he always managed to, nod and heed and carry on—but this time, he would not forgive, not forget, not ever.

Nor, of course, would she. And she, like he, would pretend to ignore it, pretend to think only of the shared comfort that followed. And when she opened those eyes, more jade than emerald, flecks of  blue and grey instead of gold, she would not speak of it.  She would look at him, steadily as always, and set about the running of his castle, his own little kingdom under the Rock.


	15. Rhaenys

Rhaenys always did what she was told.  Her mother always told her she was a good girl, and she was proud of that.  What else could she be, after all?  She was a princess.  Princesses were supposed to be good girls.  Everyone said so.

And Mother when said, so quietly that Rhaenys almost couldn’t hear “Go.  Hide.  Now,”  Rhaenys scampered off as fast as her legs could take her.  Her mother knew all her hiding spots, of course—behind the curtains and tapestries, in the nooks that no one ever seemed to look at.  Even the ones that Balerion had found between her father’s bookshelves. All of them just open enough that Rhaenys could still crawl free of them, if she needed to.  Rhaenys hated small, closed spaces.  But Rhaenys knew these open-faced hiding spots weren’t going to be good enough, not when her mother’s eyes had been so wide and so shiny and so black. 

"No—please, not my Ae—NO!" a sickening smash, a scream, and Rhaenys froze.   _Go. Hide. Now_.  She stuffed her hand in her mouth to hide her wail.  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t leave her mother alone back there, but her mother had told her what to do and Rhaenys was a good girl.

Balerion streaked past her and into her father’s bedchamber, the door to which had been left open to allow for a crossbreeze into her mother’s.  Rhaenys shoved her way into the room and shut the door behind her.

The kitten was under the great bed—so big that Rhaenys had once gotten lost under its blankets.  She saw the glistening kitten eyes.  There was no other place to hide—none.  They would find them all, because her mother knew them all, and they’d make her mother show them, but what if she went under and they couldn’t find her and then she couldn’t get out, and was trapped there, in the half-foot between bed and floor and she couldn’t eat or sleep or drink and she just wasted away beneath it, trapped until the wood rotted and fell over her and it became her tomb.  

Rhaenys heard her mother screaming again, and dove under the bed towards the cat eyes, tears streaking down her face, wiggling until she was as far back as she could before the closeness of everything made her stiffen and freeze and call out, “Father!”

A hand grabbed her ankle, and for one frantic moment, Rhaenys thought her Father had heard her.


	16. Sansa, Tywin & a Toaster

"The damn thing won’t work!"

"Have you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in?"

"Does this look like a computer, Miss Stark? That sort of mumbo-jumbo doesn’t work on machinery."

"Suit yourself. I was merely referring to the fact that, since it is a bit old, the wiring might be off and unplugging it might help."

"This toaster is not old. We got it in ‘73."

"It’s older than I am."

"But as you are not old, neither is this toaster. It is in the prime of its years."

"Except toasters don’t quite have the same lifespan as we humans. Are you sure you want to be hitting it like that?"

"If it can’t handle its job—"

"It’s a toaster."

"I expect better of my underlings."

"Well, it might help if you provided your underlings with the resources necessary to perform their work."

"Miss Stark, if this is about how I have yet to replace the coffee machine, your timing leaves much to be desired."

"I was merely referring to the fact that the toaster does not have the electricity required to adequately toast your breakfast. If I may direct your attention to the outlet where it is currently unplugged, you might find a solution to your toaster problem that does not require the sort of violence against toasters that should be reported to HR."


	17. Loras x Renly

Loras often wondered just how much Coach Penrose understood that, sometimes, the best way to make his team turn around when they were losing at half-time (17-7—not to mention two breakaways that had had Loras almost want to put his head in his hands, or in Margaery’s pom-poms) was to let Renly go off and make out with his boyfriend for fifteen minutes. If it was reasonable to expect the quarterback to respond positively to a “pep talk” in which his performance in the game was “reanalyzed” in front of the team in an effort to “raise spirits”, it was certainly reasonable to expect that fifteen minutes of steady necking would clean the slate well enough to fix Renly’s performance.  (Loras could think of some other things that might be “raised” during that time as well.)  Besides, there was something to be said about the whole stereotype of the head cheerleader “comforting” the star quarterback…


	18. Myrcella

She remembers a happier time—a time when snowflakes fell lightly, before the end of summer, when Tommen laughed at the sight of puppies in the yard of Winterfell.  She had watched Joff and Robb crossing blades and felt her heart beat faster—not for fear that her brother was in danger, but because there was a way that those blue eyes lit up when he moved, a way that his arms seemed so strong—like he could pick her up without any effort at all—the shape of his torso as it tapered from broad shoulders into slim waist.

Myrcella had liked Robb.  He had been kind to her, gentle, amusing, handsome—so very handsome.  She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone quite so handsome before.  He had been attentive, though she was younger and a girl and too shy to say too much to him.  He had been honorable, so far as she’d been able to tell, and her father had liked him simply for being the son of his friend.  After Joff’s betrothal had been announced, she had cried into her pillow, wishing bitterly that the match could have been between her and the Northern boy who made her so aware of her youth, and so aware that she was leaving childhood.

And now he is dead, and Myrcella finds she feels nothing at all.  


	19. Viserys

On rainy nights, he remembered Rhaenys. Before he and his mother had set sail for Dragonstone, Rhaenys would scamper into his room on rainy nights, long after his little niece was supposed to be abed, and crawl in with him.

“What are you doing here?” he would ask.

“There are rain monsters. Mother says so. They cause rivers to flood and everyone to drown.”

Viserys made no comment about Elia’s Dornish ideas. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Rhaenys and whispered, “I will keep you safe. And I promise, the Blackwater won’t flood.” 

Rhaenys would burrow her head into his chest and would fall asleep next to him. 

Once she had whispered, as she had fallen asleep, “if you are ever scared of monsters, I will protect you too, Uncle.” 

He had dreamed childish dreams of marrying Rhaenys, before Aegon had been born when he had been the only Targaryen boy and she the only Targaryen girl. He had imagined the bells ringing through King’s Landing as they had for Rhaegar’s wedding. It was the only thing he remembered of Rhaegar’s wedding—the bells. He had been to young to remember anything else, only Rhaenys’ age when she had been murdered.

He tried to love Daenerys that way—to cherish and protect her as he had Rhaenys. But in all his dreams of Kinghip, even now, Daenerys was not his queen. Daenerys would never come to him on rainy nights, when his memories haunted him.


	20. Brynden x Shiera

"Is that…seventies porn music playing in the background?"

“Maybe…”

“Brynden! I am not having sex with you tonight.”

“Oh come on! I even filled the hot tub with virgin’s blood for you!”

“That is disgusting! Who even does that?”

“I know. Impressive, right?”

“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t  _believe_  we are having this discussion again.”

“Look, Shiera, I understand if you don’t want to bang me now—”

“I don’t.”

“But don’t write me off just yet.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You killed those virgins for their hot tub blood, didn’t you?”

“I might have.”

“Brynden!”

“Look, Shiera—”

“You’re horrible! Get away from me!”

“But Shiera, I’ve popped a thousand boners for you!”

“I am leaving. Goodbye, Brynden.”

“A thousand boners, and one!…and she’s gone…great. What am I going to do with all this blood?”


	21. Lyanna

 

 

Lyanna became the wild one when Brandon died. There was no one else to do it. Ned wasn’t going to—not with Catelyn to comfort and Benjen to look after. That left Lyanna. And she wasn’t going to let Brandon’s spirit die with him. Brandon had been such a vibrant soul, someone who didn’t need anyone to help him with anything, who loved his family, but who so often took paths away from them.  Without Brandon, Lyanna saw the world before her for the first time, and excitement pulled her through the pain of knowing that she’d never hear his booming laugh again.  

 

 

 

The more that Ned tried to keep them all together, the harder that Lyanna pulled away. And, of course, in the end there was only so hard Ned could try. He didn’t know how to be the eldest brother, and even if he did, he was no Brandon.  Lyanna was so good at hiding from him, hiding what she really thought, really wanted, and he contented himself with what he saw. It was easier, after all, to comfort the obvious grief of Cat, or Ben, than to comfort one who denied she was grieving at all. As he and Cat grew closer, as Ben threw himself once again into his studies, it was so easy for Lyanna to convince Ned that all was well. 

 

 

 

She met them at a club, and he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Robert was with her—Robert was always with her. He followed her everywhere, even when she didn’t want him there.  He loved her, at least he thought so, and it was so easy to let herself be loved.  That was, until she saw him, pale and eyes like something from a fairy tale. What did it matter that he was married, what did it matter that his wife was there with him, in the very same room, that her dark eyes widened and her reddened lips pursed when she and Rhaegar departed together?

 

 

 

No—she didn’t have to be convinced to run. She’d been longing for it, really.  And how good freedom tasted in her mouth.  No wonder Brandon had loved it so.  It was intoxicating, better than any drug, better than any sex, and Lyanna never wanted to go back. Memories of Robert, of Ned, of Ben faded into the distance, eclipsed by the newness of everything.  But when Rhaegar grew nervous, that Elia would leave him this time, that his father would do something destructive, he left her in the care of his best friend with the promise of his return.

 

 

 

He didn’t return.  And, because she didn’t know where else to go, she went home.  Mundanity bled into her life and soon she forgot what it was to be free.  And every day, Lyanna wondered what would have happened if Rhaegar had come back.

 

 


	22. Cersei & Joanna

"When will he come, Mother?"  Cersei’s head was rested—not on her mother’s swollen belly, but in the space just above it, close to her heart.  She could hear her mother’s lazy heartbeat,  _kaThump, kaThump,_ as steady as Jaime’s was.

"Soon, my love."  Mother’s voice was soft, and her hand was woven through Cersei’s golden curls and she felt so secure, so safe.  "And he might be a she.  You may have a sister instead of a brother."

"I want another brother.  I want another Jaime.  Please, mother, have a boy?"  Jaime wanted another Cersei, but Cersei was sure that if she asked Mother very nicely, Mother would heed her request.  Mother liked her better than Jaime.  Mother spent more time with her than with Jaime.

Mother just chuckled.  ”I shall try, my sweet.  Another Tywin, like your father perhaps.  Or Tyrion, like the old kings of the Rock.”

"Tyrion," said Cersei.  "I like the name Tyrion.  It would be strange to have another father."

Mother laughed.  ”You do not even understand the depth of truth to your words, my love.  Westeros would not survive if there were two of him.  Tyrion then.  We’ll name him Tyrion.  Cersei and Jaime and Tyrion.  What a fine set of Lannisters!”

Cersei nuzzled into her mother, hiding the smile on her lips.  She didn’t know why she hid it.  She tried not to hide things from her mother (except  _that_ ,  but only because they’d gotten in trouble the first time).  But this smile—this smile was for her unborn baby brother.  This smile was for Tyrion.


	23. Rhaenys

Rhaenys hated when they fought.  Perhaps because she was always somehow stuck in the middle, and always seemed to be dragged from one side to the other, when all she really wanted was to remain neutral.  How do you pick between two siblings so stubborn that, if they were in fact a three headed dragon, they’d probably decapitate one another and leave her without company?  

Aegon always grew pale when he was angry, his skin losing all color so that he looked almost like the corpses that he fed to Balerion.  It made his beard and hair look strange, in truth, for his pallor brought out the golden hues in the silvery hair they shared.  It made him look more like Orys, in truth, their blond brother who increasingly never left Aegon’s side and whispered ideas that Visenya loathed into his ears.

When she fought, Visenya grew more beautiful.  Where blood drained from Aegon’s face, it flew to Visenya’s, a flush of red crawling up her skin, making her lips seem darker, her eyes brighter, her hair paler.  There was a ferocity to her such that, when looking at her, it was hard to forget the words  _Fire and Blood._   

And then there was Rhaenys, pink and pale in the middle, silver and gold, left and right, one side and both, the center head, the mild one, the reasonable one, the one who kept them from ripping themselves apart.


	24. Stannis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [CommaSplice](archiveofourown.org/users/commasplice) ([medlibrarian](medlibrarian.tumblr.com)): Something with my beloved lobster king?

Stannis was afraid of having a son.

He was afraid that his son would turn out too much like Robert.  True, Robert had been a strong warrior.  But he had been unthinking to the point of madness, not to mention that his whoring and debauchery had been unbefitting of the crown he had worn.  

He was afraid that his son would turn out like Renly—ungrateful, trivial, and weak.  Not to mention that unnaturalness with the Tyrell boy.  What if that was the sort of thing that wasn’t learned—what if it was something that was born into a man?  What if it grew, disguised as friendship, until it became something more?  What if he, Stannis, somehow carried it within him, the sibling who came between Robert and Renly?  What if he passed it on to his son?

He was most afraid, however, that his son would turn out like Lord Snow—that Bastard of Ned Stark’s.  Stubborn to a fault, unyielding, determined to resist his rightful king at all cost.  The boy was honorable, and not unintelligent—that much was true, but he carried the weight of his command so seriously that it blinded him to necessity.

No, Stannis was afraid of a son like that—a son like him.


	25. Viserys

Viserys rolled up the window and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes.  It was over.  It had happened.

He knew he should be happy for her—happy that she’d won, after years of struggling to be recognized for more than her beauty.  She had, after all, been phenomenal in the film.  It had almost been disturbing to watch, his little Dany, crouched, terrified, abused, murderous, vengeful.  He knew that he had trouble going to the places he needed to go to perform in that kind of scene, and to watch Dany…Her transformation had been incredible, stunted and terrified and young to grown up and riding to victory across the silver screen.

Yes, she definitely deserved that little golden statue.  So why was he sad?

He pulled out his Android and ran through the series of emails:  _Tell Dany congrats!, You must be so proud!, Woohooo There we go Targ!, You should have won—you deserved it too._   Rhaegar hadn’t emailed. Nor had mother.  He was sure that they had sent something to Dany, but nothing to him.  His only consolation came from Dany’s friend Doreah, who really just wanted to fuck him and be done with it just to say she had.  But she didn’t want him, and there was that creeping fear, that horrible paranoia, that no one wanted him.  That they just wanted Dany.

Eyes still closed, he said to the driver, “Let’s just go home, actually.”


	26. Catelyn x Ned

She knew she loved him when she stopped comparing him to Brandon. When “he is not quite as tall as Brandon was” turned into “how perfectly I fit beneath his chin”; when “his hands are so much more rough” became “how right it feels to take his hand”; when “his smile seems so much more subdued” became “that smile is just for me—the one that makes his eyes crinkle just like that”; that was when Catelyn knew she loved her husband.

The North wasn’t easy to love.  It was so cold, so bleak, so quiet without the constant burble of water.  And when the birds sounded—which they did not do as often as Catelyn had grown accustomed to at Riverrun—they did not sing.  They screeched, they screamed, they cried, the voice of her dissatisfaction.  Until, of course, she loved him.  Then even the shrillest of calls did not herald loneliness.  Indeed, she hardly noticed them at all.  The bleakness of the moors, the harsh winds that buffeted the walls of the great castle, somehow everything seemed softened because Ned was there.

Loving Ned made the cold Northern nights warmer, for, as if aware of this change within her, Ned took to her bed more frequently, and when they had shared their pleasure, she would curl up next to him and feel how perfectly she fit beneath his chin, how gentle his hands were on her skin, and see how that smile, which made his eyes crinkle so, was just for her.


	27. Tywin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next several chapters/drabbles were prompted by a Tumblr meme.  
> -  
> Prompt from [wetwasteofagirl](wetwasteofagirl.tumblr.com): tywin lannister, grapholagnia (au??)

**Grapholagnia**  - The urge to stare at obscene pictures.

-

He’d heard that it was a work of the finest artistry, that the realism and precision of the painting was to be marveled at.  How, in a time when paintings were more precise than photographs, could an artist capture such detail with a horsehair paintbrush and a palette of oil paints.

He’d heard all of this, and more—that, culturally speaking, it was one of the most influential paintings to come out of the fine arts community, that it had been bought by more than one extremely wealthy man so that he could have it in his personal collection, that there were museums who refused to put it on display because it was too “obscene.”

And he had to own it—not for power, not for beauty, not for wealth.  Just to look at it, to look at her, sleeping and exposed in exquisite perfection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this is abt [a real painting](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L'Origine_du_monde), btw.) (the link is NSFW)


	28. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [wetwasteofagirl](wetwasteofagirl.tumblr.com): cersei, lalochezia

**Lalochezia**  - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.

-

"Get away, you horrid little monster."

She regrets it the moment that it’s out of her mouth—when she sees his eyes, one black, one green—lose their shine before he looks away.  She doesn’t say anything though.  She doesn’t reach out to him, though she knows she should.  Should doesn’t have anything to do with it, not while Joff is, not while he, no.  No.  She can’t think about it.  Not—

She looks away too, towards the coffin that holds her eldest son, carried towards the open grave by her father and uncles and Jaime.  She wants to run, she wants to sob, she wants tear her hair loose from the horrible tight bun that she’s wearing it in, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she stands, still as a statue, and reaches for Tommen’s and Myrcella’s hands.


	29. Jaime x Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [thatkiwichick](thatkiwichick.tumblr.com): JaimeXBrienne with Basorexia

**Basorexia**  - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

-

"Lips, teeth, tip of the tongue, lips, teeth, tip of the tongue, lips, teeth, tip of the tongue…"

It’s as though Mr. Dayne  _knows_  that’s all he can think about right now, looking across the circle of chairs at where she sat in the alto section.

"Lips, teeth, tip of the tongue, lips, teeth, tip of the tongue, lips, teeth, tip of the tongue…"

He wonders what would happened if he crossed the room and just grabbed her, in front of everyone, and pressed his lips teeth tip of the tongue to hers.


	30. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Mamihlapinatapei. Myrcella. Harry Potter AU. RobbxMyrcella.

**Mamihlapinatapei**  - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

-

Daenerys finds Prefect meetings to be increasingly unbearable.  She’s pretty sure the others largely agree with each her too—not that she’s asked them.  She can’t ask them.  None of them are allowed to talk about it.  Because if anyone brings it up, both of them will blush so deeply that they’d probably combust.  

Because that’s all Prefect meetings are these days—and no matter how much Daenerys tries to keep the meetings on track, the simple fact that the Head Boy and the Fifth Year Hufflepuff Prefect can’t help but stare longingly across the room at one another…well..

It had started out cute, of course.  Really and truly.  And Daenerys was very supportive of it.  She had to be, after all.  But somehow, picking between being a good Head Girl (telling Robb to keep it out of the meetings) and being a good friend seemed impossible.  And, of course, if she brought it up to Myrcella, the girl would probably stop coming to meetings out of embarassment.

So, she supposed they were doomed to suffer through it until one of them made the first move.


	31. Cersei x Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [wetwasteofagirl](wetwasteofagirl.tumblr.com): cersei/jaime, autolatry

**Autolatry -** The worship of one’s self.

-

We are not men. We are Gods. And Gods play by different rules.  And if they shouldn’t, it doesn’t matter.  

We worship as we please.  We worship as we want, and what we want is one another, what we want is ourselves.  Why bother teaching them how to worship us, when we can touch ourselves, want ourselves all on our own.

In you I see myself, in me you see yourself, and you within me—me within you—we become complete, whole.  If that is not the finest form of worship, I do not know what is.

We are not men.  We are Gods.  We are each other.


	32. Lyanna

Brandon always made fun of her for getting the flowers during the holidays.  He thought it was “girly”, and given that for most of her life she sought to dispel any impression that she might be “girly”, he saw no reason  _not_  to make fun of her for it.

She couldn’t—and, indeed, didn’t—blame him for that.  On the contrary, she let his jokes wash over her as she thought about at what angle she should insert the white rose with the red tinted petals.  She loved the smell of roses, she loved the way that lilies jiggled when you carried the vase from the kitchen to the dining room, she loved stubbornness of baby’s breath.  She loved matching colors with the napkins and wearing dresses that would in turn match the arrangements she had bought.  

There was something so joyfully oblivious about flowers.  Lyanna had never known what.  Just that when she leaned back to make sure that none of the roses stuck out too much from there rest, nothing else seemed to matter, and everything was perfect.


	33. Sandor

It was in hearing the twittering of birds that he knew he wasn’t dead yet.  He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d closed his eyes, when the world had gone overbright sometime after the Wolf Bitchling had left him on his own.  Everything was all wrong—the rustle of the leaves and the burble of water were indistinct in his ears, blurring together with the sounds of his own laboring breaths.  But the damned birds were perfectly clear, and kept him from his sleep.

Damn them.  Damn the birds.  Damn the girl who wouldn’t kill him.  Damn the girl who wouldn’t go with him.  Damn the Stark boy for going and getting himself killed.  Damn that fucking butcher’s boy who didn’t have the sense the Gods gave an apple and that would have allowed him to realize it is never a good idea to play with girls who are higher born than you.  They’ll use you until they’re done with you and you won’t know why but you’ll keep going back and hope that they’ll notice you.  And while he was at it, damn himself too. Damn him, not killing Gregor, because leaving this earth without proper vengeance…Damn him.  Damn him to Seven buggering Hells and back.   And damn those  _fucking_  birds twice over with their incessant chirping and the constant reminder that he was alone, and that the Little Bird hadn’t come with him.  Of course, if she had, would any of this happened?  Would she have ended up dead with her mother and brother at the Twins, or sent back, captive once again, to King’s Landing?

But she was safe—at least, he thought she was safe.  Safer in King’s Landing than with her brother, it seemed.  And he would die now, having failed to keep her safe, having failed to keep her sister safe, having failed at everything even killing fucking Gregor who shouldn’t be allowed to walk this earth.  

Seven fucking bloody buggering Hells, he’d rather think of her as he died than of Gregor. 

She, and the way her neck arched when she looked down and away from everyone, and her bird’s songs.


	34. Ashara

It wasn’t Brandon’s eyes she was the most aware of—though his eyes were daring enough, staring at her breasts as openly as they did.  It wasn’t sullen Ned’s, who only looked at her when he thought she couldn’t see, flushing a deep red if ever she caught him at it.  It wasn’t even little Benjen, still growing and like to be taller than either of his brothers if he didn’t stop soon, pimples over his face and unsure of how, precisely, one looks at a woman.

Oh, she was aware of their eyes, as a woman is aware of any man’s eyes following her across the room.  But she wasn’t the  _most_  aware of them.

Everyone thought that the sister was enraptured by the Prince.  Everyone was, after all, as he strummed away on his heart, singing the song of a weeping soul.  But, from time to time, Lyanna Stark’s eyes would flick to Ashara, to her hands clasped neatly on her lap, to her hair, coming loose from its net after dancing for hours, to her breasts, whose heaving had slowed but upon which rested a sheen of sweat.

And Ashara would smirk, knowing which of the Stark four had unknowingly captured her attention.


	35. Loren

Everything comes to an end.  That is what his mother had always told him.  He had always supposed she’d intended it as a solace—he, like his fathers, and his sons, would one day die.  And perhaps, one day, there would be no more Lannisters to rule the Rock, or the West.  Perhaps there would be no West at all.  Perhaps, once all the gold had been mined, the land would collapse and sink into the sea and the Lannisters and the Casterlys and the Westerlings and the rest would all sink into legend like House Mudd.

He’d never thought that he would survive his end—that one day, he would ride to battle with his men, and they would die and he would live.  He’d never thought that one day, he’d chose his own life over the honor of his house, the pride of his forbears, but choose he did.  For when the Dragon King offered him a Lordship in exchange for his crown, protection in exchange for his service, he’d accepted, in a moment, his reign was over, his legacy forever changed.

And when Loren returned to the Rock, he would see the sun set in the West, would see the darkness take over the skies, no longer fire bright.  But he would never forget the smell of burning flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it.  
> That's November.
> 
> Thanks for checking in, folks!
> 
> I love writing drabbles (though am admittedly a bit tuckered out after this project). If you want anything in particular, [drop me a line on my tumblr](http://crossingwinter.tumblr.com/message), and I'll do my best to fill it out. I make no promises--I prefer not to try and force sth that doesn't come naturally to me. But I promise at least to try!
> 
> Thanks once again for reading, and happy December/later times.


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